


When Metal Bends

by ShySpider



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: 80s setting, Angst, Coping, Death, F/M, Fluff, Graphic Violence, Grief/Mourning, Incorrect assumptions, Kidnapping, Mutual Pining, Other, Polyamory, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Torture/human experimentation, Unhealthy obsession with Science, You are a Medical Scientist, You/Reader has a background for plot, You/Reader has a name (kinda stuck with it now)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28576311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShySpider/pseuds/ShySpider
Summary: Your own people treat you less than human, but there are others who hail you as a Hero and force upon you the mantle of their Herald.You learn Peace is only a bandaid and that there are crueler things lurking among the stars.And you learn you would do anything for those you've come to love and call family.(Continuation of When Flesh Gives)
Relationships: Sideswipe/Reader, Sideswipe/You, Sunstreaker/Reader, Sunstreaker/You
Comments: 89
Kudos: 80





	1. Foreword: What came before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a 10 point refresher from my first fic, When Flesh Gives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, mind the tags.  
> I know I put some pretty serious stuff up there, and to some people it might not be as graphic as I advertised (everyone has their own thresholds), but I would rather over-tag than blindside people with unfavorable vibes.
> 
> That being said, Welcome!  
> So glad you stopped by <3

_When Flesh Gives_ was your background story of how you became the person you are, along with how you forged relationships that will last eons. 

If you haven’t read it, then a quick warning for the origin story spoilers below.

-[._.]-

  1. You are a brilliant scientist working for your father and his associate, Doctor Ivan Arkeville. You’ve been studying the medical properties of Energon, when an unfortunate accident threw Sunstreaker’s consciousness in the body of your brain-dead fiancé, Henri Arkeville. You survive electrocution when you definitely shouldn’t have.
  2. While working to reverse the process, you found out the human experimentation you’ve been conducting was not sanctioned by the government sector that funded you. You chose to hide this from these agents that came to investigate the accident. You chose to continue to work on and help Sunstreaker in secret.
  3. You discovered your fiancé had not been faithful and had carried on an affair behind your back with the friend, Bethany Beller, who was like a sister to you, and a child was born after Henri’s accident. Sunstreaker and you became close enough to where he could comfort you. Your feelings for him become more complicated and strained.
  4. Government investigators find out your crimes. You scatter your team in the winds, and your assistant, Holly LeTene, kept the damning news of your radiation tests from you for fear of it falling in the wrong hands.
  5. You hole up at the Autobot base to aid in the race to discover what needed to be done to return Sunstreaker into his body. You and Sunstreaker stop fighting the feelings you’ve developed for one another and spend one final night together.
  6. You find a way to return him to his body. It almost fails. In a desperate attempt to save him, you step out into the storm of fire and electricity and touch his spark. Like a grounding rod, it courses through you _painfully_ and pours into his lifeless shell. You survived yet again.
  7. He is immediately returned to the Autobot Orbital station due to the injuries left by the violent electrical currents racking his internals. No one knows quite what happened, and it’s difficult for you to accept what you may have done. Prowl advises you to say nothing about it.
  8. You turn yourself into the agents for incarceration to avoid a diplomatic incident between the Autobots and your people, with the promises from Prowl that he will lobby relentlessly for your release.
  9. Evidence is found that your closest friend and confidant, Alan Faireborn, created a cipher to translate the Cybertronian language and that you have basic medical knowledge of their alien workings. You refused to cooperate.
  10. Your brain-dead fiancé, Henri, wakes on his own. Holly LeTene was discovered being a (retired) infiltrator agent of the infamous criminal organization Cobra. Bethany, for fear of her daughter’s life by threat from Agent Simmons, confesses to all that she had witnessed you do. You are now turned from a Suspect to a _Subject_.



Let’s begin...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello 2021. Try to be a kinder year.


	2. Was it all Worth it?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half a year, this has been your day-to-day.  
> You are reduced from a brilliant scientist to a subject to be studied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Torture/Human Experimentation in this chapter.
> 
> Tried not to info-dump a whole lot in this chapter, but mainly setting the scene of what you had to endure during your incarceration. Ugh. Politics.  
> Ohh will ANYONE come to save you?

“Remember to breathe,” The intercom speaker announced in that tinny voice, “It will only be ten seconds this time, but less amperage.”

You were already a little delirious from the first few rounds, trying your best to be in the present and steel yourself. You clenched your jaw on the padded bar they strapped in your mouth, and with how scrambled you already were, they could slap a saddle on you, call you a Thoroughbred, and you would believe them.

“Stand clear of the subject.”

You fought through the fog, only to wish to hide back in the thick of it. Your eyes watered, your breath quickened, and the heart monitor betrayed your ramping terror. 

You could say the anticipation was worse. Not this time.

Your body seized and came afire once again. Nerves screamed and muscles contracted, feeling like they were tearing their way out of your skin. You weren’t sure if it was ten seconds or ten minutes, but you were going to die this time.

Just like you were going to die the time before, and the time before that, and the time before that...

Then it all stopped. Your body just flopped in an unceremonious puddle of agony on the examination table. You wanted to move, to smother the embers on your skin, to pull out the knives in your stomach, to tuck your flesh back against your bones. All you could do was work the bite-guard in your mouth. You tried to swallow with your swollen tongue, but nothing was working right. Everything that had anything to do with basic bodily commands was a gnarled mess. You coughed up spittle and drooled out the side of your mouth.

The door opened and two orderlies started unstrapping you from the table, turning you on your side so you didn’t choke on your own saliva. You were treated as any paralyzed patient as they rocked you back and forth to remove the electrical nodes and dress you in the starchy patient gown. You had no dignity left.

Once you were decent, they hooked you up to numerous monitors and took enough blood to fill an infant. You wanted to speak, to ask for water. You couldn’t form coherent words beyond grunts and whimpers, even after they removed the bite-guard.

Other nurses filed in, filling out paperwork and checking other vitals. Finally, one offered you ice-chips and wiped your mouth. They sat you up and started to test your strength, or what little there was. You could barely hold your head up. The time it took to find the ability to swallow and form words, was the time the white-coat parade marched in with clipboards in hand and irritated scowls because the results were _your fault_.

The one you came to know as the orchestrator to your torture spoke to the nurse beside you, “Be sure to document the residual trauma from these rounds of tests.” He then looked down his hawkish nose at you. “Describe your symptoms.”

You took your time, wanting to address him as professionally as possible. You wanted them to know you were not an animal, but you were once one of them. “Dry mouth, dizziness, weakness, nausea, fevered skin, itchy – the normal symptoms of any victim of electrocution.” You didn’t fight the razored words that came next, “You should know that, Doctor Swofford.”

“Don’t be rude. You’re lucky I explained to the committee opening you up would be counter-productive.” He flashed a sneer, “Call it a favor, for old time's sake. I respected your father, you know.”

“You’ve said,” You muttered. So much for _respect_ if this is what he was doing to a colleague’s daughter. 

“Try to be more cooperative.” He held up his clipboard. “We’ve been at this for how long now?”

“Long enough for you to figure out what you’re doing won’t work,” You jabbed, “ _Doctor_.”

Doctor Swofford’s nose wrinkled as he glared at you. “Then educate me _why_ it won’t work. According to your first medical exam, you didn’t exhibit any of these symptoms when you were initially electrocuted. Help us find the problem. _How_ did you just... _‘pop’_ back up?”

“I don’t _know_ , and we won’t find out.” You worked your fingers and toes in a show. You wanted him to know you were not just an experiment, but a _victim_. “There was a multitude of variables you cannot replicate, and you’re not going to – _never_ going to.”

Doctor Swofford squinted some, glancing back at his colleagues that begun to murmur to one another. His peering turned into a grimace, “If you were accommodating, we wouldn’t have to waste all this time with these tests. It’s been _months_ –"

“And I’ve _been_ telling you,” You said slowly, patronizing, “The current traveled through an alien substance _while_ I was in contact with one of _them_. It wasn’t normal electricity. It was different.”

“Different _how_?”

It took all your willpower and effort to shrug as scornfully as you could. “Ask a Cybertronian. They are much more advanced –"

“For the last time, we’re not involving one of the NBEs!” Doctor Swofford snapped, “And you know why. Your eagerness to involve them only proves the testimony of Miss Beller.”

“It proves that I’m sick of you fumbling,” You argued. The smolder on your skin dulled to a fire in your belly. You kept true to your lie. “I was only electrocuted once.”

“You still keep to the story that you _didn’t_ run out into an electrical storm caused by malfunctioning alien machinery, essentially turning yourself into a lightning rod, and standing within one of the NBE’s till it came to life?” He read from his chart, even though this isn’t the first, or the fiftieth, time he’s interrogated you. It was like he missed his calling being an Agent – the kind that liked to _torture_ the answer out of you.

“Do you know how _ridiculous_ that sounds? You’re a scientist, for Christ’s sake,” You scolded breathlessly, and your heart monitor backed your story for the umpteenth time. It was a feat you kept to yourself, lying about it till there were dazed moments during your incarceration where you wondered if it was all a dream.

Pride kept Doctor Swofford from bowing. Old men needing to be right was a constant thorn in your life, and though you learned the ability to stroke the ego of others – thanks to Agent Simmons being a test subject – but you couldn’t find it in you to do so with a man who was _supposed_ to be on par with you, intellectually.

“You maintain the defense of Miss Beller misleading us.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement, because it was the same thing he’s said to you numerous times, before. The damn scientist loved role-playing as a two-bellied lawyer.

_Bethany Beller_. You couldn’t even _think_ her name without spitting. _She did this to you_ – is what you wanted to think. _You_ did this to you. You couldn’t help but think of that old fable with the turtle and the scorpion. As much as you argued with yourself, you _trusted_ her to have your back, to hold out until this was all over, but something made her cave.

Whether it was the few months locked up without seeing her daughter, or the opportunity to stab you in the back for leaving your ex-fiancé – _the father of her child_ – to die, or that betrayal is just in her nature as stinging is to a scorpion, you may never know.

Yet, you had every right to be bitter. Bethany wasn’t being electrocuted to death. You couldn’t keep the venom from your words, “Is she able to see her daughter, now?”

“I believe she is – but I don’t talk to her assigned agent about those sorts of things.” He glanced at your chart again, letting out a long and tired sigh. “You can argue as much as you want, but you know her testimony prompted your tests. Whether she’s lying or not, your scans _prove_ something happened. Just tell us _what_ and it will make things so much simpler.”

You kept your head held high, despite the ache in your neck and shoulders. You would maintain your innocence all you wanted, but the papers he held in his hand were what spelled your doom.

“There is clearly evidence that your body underwent a biophysical change. You emit a higher radiation level than a normal human. Your cells carry more of a nucleic charge than average. Help _me_ help _you_.” Doctor Swofford pressed, trying the _friend_ angle.

You wondered if someone was breathing down his neck about this. He was given this task and he hadn’t delivered for _months_ – you think. Time was funny when you weren't provided a calendar or clock. You measured your days in burnt toast.

Still, you never broke. “I’ve said, _every time_ , I can only speculate _exposure_. My team worked on the same things as I, but I spent extensive time at the Cybertronian’s base and among them. This is why I say you should involve them. Do I need to spell it out for you?”

You could have gone without that little nip at the end. Doctor Swofford didn’t respond well to being dressed-down before his team, and judging by the color his face turned, you knew that was that. He jerked his head to the side, instructing over his shoulder at the orderlies, “Take her back to her room.”

He spun on his heel and stormed off with his little white-coat groupies in tow.

The two surly men pulled you up to your unsteady feet and plopped you down in a wheelchair. There were no caring words, no gentle touches – but there was no abuse. It was a cold and practical relationship between you and the nurses around. You were an experiment, not a patient.

As you were wheeled out down a maze of stark white corridors, a familiar woman stood by the elevator you were pushed towards. She wore the same black blazer and pencil skirt that sometimes confused you on the passing of time. With a nod to the orderlies, they left you in her care.

She pulled out a water bottle from the inside of her jacket-of-holding, setting it in your lap. Her tone was genial, but not pityingly so, “Can you open it?”

“Give me about an hour,” You gave her a withering smile, “I’m just starting to feel my legs. I’m sure fine-motor skills will come shortly after.”

She got behind your chair and wheeled you into the elevator, “Another rough day?”

“I miss your interrogations, Agent Bestley.” It was partially true.

The woman pressed a button, and the door closed. She hissed through her teeth before saying, “ _That_ bad, huh?”

“If Doctor Swofford keeps this up, he’s going to kill me.” You tried opening the bottle. Your fingers still weren’t working right, and strength still had yet to return to you. “At best I’ll have nerve damage, seizures, neurological damage –"

“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

“He _doesn’t_ ,” You spat, “He’s not listening to me. He’s pumping pure electricity through me in hopes to recreate what he _thinks_ happened. He’s fumbling, Pauline. _Guessing_ without any hard facts.”

“Maybe if you give up the facts, he wouldn’t have to guess,” she sniped.

“I have been,” You kept up the lie, “and it’s the same as what I’ve said before. Do I need to remind you, too?”

Agent Bestley snorted, “Keep up the attitude, I’m sure that mad scientist will consider easing up on his experiments any day now.”

You were silent a moment, cursing that snarky, cynical tongue you’ve developed. Frustration birthed bad decisions and a poor way with words. No one here liked you patronizing them, especially since you were deemed more than a criminal. Watching the buttons light up one by one as you traveled up from the sub-basement, you murmured, “I have rights...”

“Not anymore,” She clucked, “When your friend told us what you did and your scans came back abnormal, you became –"

“Not human?”

“A security risk.”

You scoffed, “and this has _nothing_ to do with what information you _think_ I know about the Cybertronians – which you’ll never get if I go into cardiac arrest and _die_!”

Agent Bestley’s head snapped to stare at you. You looked up from your seated position, glaring into her eyes. You knew the gears in her brain were churning. You knew you hinted at knowing _something_.

You were desperate, but not enough to break.

“You really believe Doctor Swofford isn’t making any headway with your experiments?” Those earthy eyes bore into you.

You paid mind to your facial expressions, allowing yourself to bare your teeth in a grimace. “I dare you to _check_. He’s trying to make something happen out of nothing. I know a desperate attempt when I see one.”

“So do I,” Agent Bestley looked back up at the elevator doors, huffing out, “Fine. I’ll say something to my superior. I’m sure you know what you’re talking about, despite having your license revoked.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“Anytime, _Miss_ Morgan. Just remember this little favor I'm doing for you.”

That was a little twist of the knife. Every time you heard _Miss_ instead of _Doctor,_ it was kicking you while you were already down. It just solidified the absence of what you once were.

The elevator doors opened. Agent Bestley wheeled you down a slightly less sterile maze of hallways. There was more of an office feel to this floor with striped wallpaper and that mottled-grey-vomit tiled carpet. She stopped at an unassuming metal door, painted sandy beige to match the surroundings. She unlocked it and pushed you inside. As always, you squinted.

This was your cell: whitewashed walls, white tile floors, white furniture and bed, white toilet and sink with a white curtain for privacy. The only decoration you had was a silver drain in your _‘bathroom area’_ , should you ever try and flood your room _like the rebel you are_.

“Need help getting up?” Agent Bestley locked your wheelchair beside the table, moving your water to set on its surface.

You didn’t say anything as you took her hands, using what little strength you had to hold on as she pivoted you into the chair. She nudged the wheelchair away before taking a seat across from you. It didn’t fail your notice. “You got comfortable.”

“You good for a chat?”

“Pauline, you are the only person in this damn building I like talking to.” It was somewhat truthful, much like how a prisoner would carry on friendly conversations with their jailer. As much as she was responsible for your pain and anguish, the need for human contact was much greater than your hate.

She tilted her head with a little smile, twisting open the cap and pushing your water bottle closer to you. “You hungry?”

You took the bottle with renewed strength, guzzling it down as your answer. You don’t think you could stomach a meal, right now.

“I actually came to speak with you, but if this is a bad time – I can wait till you’ve rested.”

You paused from drinking to pant, shaking your head. “Doesn’t matter. Either way, I am your captive audience.”

She began by pulling out her little notepad from her jacket, flipping a few pages while saying, “The committee has decided there was no collusion between you and your assistant, Holly LeTene. As for Doctor Ivan Arkeville working with the terrorist organization Cobra, they cannot prove he _wasn’t_. I have to ask you again, do you have _any_ idea of their whereabouts?”

The legalese sobered you and straightened your spine beyond what you thought you were capable of in this state. Your mind immediately went to the terrorist insignia they found in Holly’s apartment – the hairpin that she _left_ for them to find. The more you thought about it, the more you were convinced she was trying to send a message. 

Her last words to you haunted your dreams. _“I’ll see you again, but you won’t see me.”_

“None,” You said.

“Shame,” she clipped, “Any help you could offer would sway the committee. They’re still deadlocked on the treason charge. Many of them understood _why_ , but that doesn’t make what you did _right_. We’re considering rounding up your staff again for questioning, but we’re unable to locate many or they’ve left the country.”

“They had nothing to do with it,” You tried your best to be casual about it, but couldn’t keep the sharp edge of panic from your tone. It was a constant fear looming over you. Bethany wasn’t just _your_ Judas, she had dirt on _everyone._ The agents already knew Alan had knowledge of a Cybertronian-translation program, but they didn’t know you lied to protect your staff. Your science team – your _lab_ - _family_ – used plausible deniability to walk and carry on with their lives. They knew what they were doing. They wanted to help you and Sunstreaker. They risked so much to help you put things right – and you were willing to pay the price for them.

Bethany also knew. She could turn them in at any moment.

Agent Bestley inclined her head, “You’ve said.”

You froze under her predatory gaze. It felt, every time you left the examination table, you lost a little more control of yourself, and before a trained agent with a psychology degree, you _needed_ to keep a good poker-face. You set the bottle down heavily, crinkling the plastic in your hand to come off more irritated than nervous. “I _know_. I say a lot of things, but no one seems to hear me.”

“And that makes you upset?”

You flipped it around perfectly. “In your career, how many times were _you_ overlooked?”

Her nostrils flared, but she didn’t answer. The one thing that you two had in common was that your work environments weren’t very conducive to your gender. You referenced it when it counted, and it served as an adequate reason for some of the choices you’ve made. Shame, it didn’t resonate with _everyone_.

You took advantage of her momentary distraction to reset yourself, inhaling a steady breath and gently guided the subject elsewhere. “Treason, isn’t that punishable by death?”

She nodded, searching your face for a trace of _anything_ she could find useful to bend you. You knew what she was looking for. _Fear_. Death wasn’t as terrible as some would think. Ask anyone who just went figurative rounds with a car battery. You quipped with an ample amount of cynicism, “Just take me downstairs, then.”

Agent Bestley snorted out her nose, “Don’t lose that dark sense of humor, Miss Morgan.”

She seemed aptly thrown off the trail of your staff, for now. You had to find a way to remove them from suspicion completely, but _how_? With Bethany telling what _seemed_ to be a cheesy science fiction story put forth tests that bore results – biological scans rife with unknown, alienlike, radiation. Now, the agents would take anything she said as sacred as scripture.

You wanted to make your sacrifice _worth it_. You wanted your team to be safe. They deserved it, for all they’ve done for you. You idly wondered for a brief fleck of a moment if your loyal assistant felt the same way. You’d hate to think that the time you and Holly spent together was all an act.

The start of a headache pulled you out of your thoughts. You rested your head against the wall beside you, breathing out, “When I do, put me out of my misery.” You watched your interrogator through a lidded gaze, “I’m getting tired, Pauline. Tell me what you need.”

“I can come back later,” She offered.

“Just get it over with.”

She was unfazed by your grumpy snap and started writing in her notepad. “You maintain the claim that you have no knowledge of NBE physiology, despite your... _drawing_ of one of them. But we _do_ have hard evidence of the alien cipher program that was deleted by your technician. Your cohort has... not been forthcoming with the information. He says there's no backup, he disposed of –"

“He did,” You didn’t let her finish, “he wiped the program clean right after we translated the data. Prowl made sure of it – Cybertronian security and all that.”

Agent Bestley withered at the Commander’s name. She drawled, “Yes, I’m familiar with the phrase.”

“Seems like he was right to be worried,” You were starting to border on the crabby side of being tired.

“We’re only doing what we feel is in the best interest of humanity. Something _you_ should care about, too.” Her brows raised some, tapping her pen on the pad, “I understand _you_ can't recover the program, but if you could convince your friend...? You could help him. It could help _you_.”

_Alan Faireborn_. Technological Engineer Extraordinaire, and resident anti-hero. The thought of you being a valued asset because of this ability to rein in that tattooed menace was comical, especially since you couldn’t really _rein him in_. At best, you knew how to redirect him as you would a charging bull – you just aimed him at a different china-shop.

“What makes you think I can talk him into it?”

“You two are close,” She mused, “I have a suspicion that he listens to you. I’m sure he would love to see you, to work with you, again.”

“If Alan found out what you were doing to me, you would be wrong because he wouldn’t listen to _anyone_ while adding to his list of felonies.” You rubbed your eyes, groaning, “I’m sure Agent Simmons would love to tack on another assault charge.”

Agent Bestley sighed, rolling her eyes, “You’re probably right. That punk is a loose cannon. I’m lucky to get assigned to someone like you, but I know you’re fooling me. I believe you’re much smarter than you let on. I believe you have more power over others than you’d like to admit.”

Her typecast flattery did nothing to ease you, but she wasn’t doing it to compliment you. She knew much of you, but not _all_. Your interrogator still never found your breaking point. You sat up more, despite your aching muscles and pulsing head. “I _thought_ I was smart because I never knew the word _ally_ meant _suspicious_. The Cybertronians are our allies, or did that change? Why are you trying to decrypt their language? Why are you trying to learn their weaknesses?”

“Because they know _ours_. They know our language, can decode our best encryptions, and they’re _machines_. Who’s to say they can hack into our systems without breaking a single firewall, or without tripping our alarms?” Agent Bestley argued, “They know how we work – we know _nothing_ about them. With the rise of cataloging data on computers, information at the touch of a button, they know _everything_ about us.”

“They are _not_ a threat!”

“Not yet!” She countered, “The potential is there. We need _something_ to protect ourselves and you’re naive to think they couldn’t be the enemy, tomorrow.”

“You want to know what I think?” You snarled, “I think _they’re_ not the ones strapping me to a table, shocking me till I taste blood.”

Agent Bestley fell quiet, busying herself by glancing over her notes. She couldn’t meet your gaze. You had cowed her back into professional-mode instead of semi-sympathetic. “It’s simply national security. That’s all.”

“Is that why you brought up the treason charge? To _encourage_ me? Like the torture by electro-shock wouldn’t have made me a bit more _pliable_ if anything was to be had.” Your accusation was razor-sharp.

Her response was infuriatingly calm. “I was assured it was for experimentation purposes due to your undocumented exposure to unknown elements.”

“Call it what it is,” you spat, “You say I’m smarter than I let on? I think you’re a lot more intelligent than your coworkers. You know what this is. It’s _torture_.”

Her dark gaze held yours assertively and there was a silent struggle. You weren't sure what exactly you’d win, but you weren't backing down.

She wasn’t either. “You have a responsibility to your country.”

“And I paid it,” You teetered on hysterics, “I'm _still_ paying it! Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have taken my patient and conducted unethical experiments – and you can't pretend you wouldn’t, not with what happens to me down in that laboratory! You think those giant machines would allow you to do this to Sunstreaker? No! And there would have been _war_ –"

“That wasn’t for you to decide.” Agent Bestley made a few notes. “I see your reasons, I really do. I see your heart was in the right place, but that wasn’t for _you_ to decide. You got too close to the NBEs, and it’s still clouding your judgment.”

You pressed your fingers to your temple as she continued, “But where are they now? They’re still mining their resources, exchanging technology with us, and chasing down their enemy threats. They don’t care about you, because you’re not one of _them_. Bethany was your friend and she flipped on you so she could see her daughter. Alan refuses to give up anything on the program to stop your experiments. The list of those who have your best interests in mind is short. When will you realize I’m the only one here who can help you? We _know_ you learned how those robots work. All you need to do is tell us everything you know and convince Faireborn to recreate the program. Why are you protecting the NBEs when they’re leaving you here to _rot_? ”

If you weren't weak, you would have launched yourself across the table and wrapped your fingers around her throat – but even at full strength, you were sure she could break your arm just as easily. You couldn’t sort what she said that triggered you so badly. Was it the fact that it’s been _months_ and you haven’t heard a thing from the Autobots? Or was it that she made you feel so alone?

You fixated on her one slip-up, “So you did tell Alan I was being experimented on. How did he take that?”

“As you predicted.” Her lips pressed together as she held your hostile glare for only a moment. She looked away and stood. “You need to do what's best for you, Miss Morgan, and the best thing for you is to cooperate. You have limited options, and friends are in short supply. Think about how we can make you comfortable while you help us. Think about your fiancé –"

“Ex-fiancé,” You corrected, and tried to steer the conversation in a different direction, “How have his seizures been?”

It was a strange mixture, of caring and not. You didn’t care much for Henri Arkeville, but cutting someone from your thoughts isn’t easy when they’ve done nothing but haunt your dreams for three straight years. He was one of the first dominos to fall, bringing you to where you were, now. He was also the reason why you spent many a night dreaming of others – the kind that were taller, with unyielding bodies, and _so_ much nicer to look at.

She offered you a glance before stepping towards the wheelchair. “We’ve gone a full month without an episode. He’s walking normally without any assistance.” You waved your hand at her, and she paused. “Do you need help before I go?”

“I think I can manage.”

Agent Bestley hesitated a moment before nodding, “I’ll see you later, Miss Morgan. Get some rest.”

You grunted your reply as she stepped out, and you heard the _clack_ of your deadbolt lock. It was disturbingly loud in this stark white room you called home for...how long? 

You ran your nails over your scalp, feeling your short hair run between your fingers. About two inches, maybe three. You were here that long for your hair to grow from being buzzed short for the initial round of tests. Trying to guess how many months it took for hair to get to this length left a sickening ache that encouraged you to not dwell on it.

Once you gathered all your willpower, you pushed yourself to your feet and used the wall to help you to your bed. You flopped on the thin mattress, much to the protest of your pounding head, but much to the relief of your sobbing body. The wonderfully cool air caressed your inflamed skin, and you closed your eyes, distantly wondering: _was it all worth it?_

You thought of Sunstreaker, and the first time you saw him smile with his _real_ face. You thought of Sideswipe, the look of relief to have his brother back molding his faceplates. You saw the faces of everyone happy to have their friend and comrade back under your eyelids, and it brought you warmth.

It was worth it. That kind of love was worth _all_ this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere, Agent Simmons is nursing a bloodied nose and Alan is sleeping like a baby.


	3. One Last Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You gain a better understanding of the changes you've endured, and you receive news that may give you an opportunity to see the old faces, one last time.   
> Agent Simmons, though, is on a crusade to make sure you'll never see the light of day ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I had no intention of making this a once a month release. Still trying to find a balance with writing, posting, courses, and other things I've picked up.   
> I made myself a reminder to post another chapter soon. I want to get to the good part just as much as you. You guys waited long enough. <3
> 
> Did I have fun researching radiation, electricity, and biology? Hell yeah, I did. I missed this.

Agent Pauline Bestley kept her word.

You couldn’t accurately count, but it’s been some time since you’ve been taken back down to the labs. Your days were measured by when you would receive breakfast, and if you had to guess, it was getting close to about twelve, maybe fifteen slices of burnt toast? The concept of time went sideways since you’ve been incarcerated.

You were suddenly afforded a few luxuries, and you weren't fooled. You were being coaxed, again. You’ve experienced pain and suffering, and now your masters offered succor and safety. Call you paranoid, but you knew this was all just another way to make you compliant, now that you knew what horrors awaited down below.

It was almost working. _Almost_.

You would not give. You would not bend. You would continue citing the lie that everything Bethany claimed was untrue, and you would not cooperate. Sure, you had fear; you had moments of nearly _giving up_. The seed that Agent Bestley cultivated inside you was festering and whispering that you _were_ abandoned and alone. There were many times on that examination table that the whispers grew louder, but still, you held on.

You were starting to feel the frays of desperation, lying awake at night, wondering what they would do next, wondering if Prowl was trying to keep his promise, and wondering if everyone just moved on. If it wasn’t for that mental laboratory within your skull to give you refuge, you probably would have gone mad – although, having debates with yourself on the philosophies’ of the Oath of Maimonides versus the Hippocratic Oath was probably toeing the line.

But then Agent Bestley gave you something that revitalized your determination. You were able to put your mind to something else, to make you feel less like a prisoner, a _patient_ , and more like a scientist. She allowed you to play with science again by giving you the results of your tests.

Doctor Swofford was not exaggerating when he said your scans were _alien_. You scoffed at the thought, because _everyone_ disperses around point three millisieverts worth of radiation a year due to ingestion of elements and natural exposure. When he accused your readings of having a higher electrical charge, you rolled your eyes, because _everyone_ carries at least point zero-seven volts of biological electricity.

But not _you_. He wasn’t exaggerating when he used the words _biophysical change_. You wished you had your team, to combine that wonderful mass of brainpower because you didn’t know _everything_. What you did know was that you were not sick, and this anomaly was not radiating off you and becoming a danger to others. It was all _internal_.

You wished you could reach out to your father. He was a Nuclear Physicist, and he could tell you why these radioactive isotopes were labeled _Beta Particles?_ – yes, with the question mark – and what that all entailed. There was no damage done to your organs or any evidence of mass cellular decay. Everything went on as normal, as if these ions were never there. As for the _Nucleic Charge_ you were accused of having, your scans showed you produced the same amount as a double _A_ battery – one point five volts.

You didn’t know what this all meant. You came up with theories of exposure, but that didn’t explain how you were _not_ experiencing any harm or side effects on any level. Your assistant, Holly LeTene, had you take an RAIU test due to a few cursory scans to create a baseline, but... you never got those results, now that you thought of it. You were understandably busy evacuating your staff before replicating the explosion that successfully knocked Sunstreaker back into his Autobot body – all before Agent Simmons came bearing down with his task force.

Yeah, your test results were the last thing on your mind, but now you were curious if they were the same as what you were reading now. Your thyroid gland was clean, your white blood cells were stable, there was no rapid cell death, no stomach ulcers, no nausea, hair loss, bleeding, fever – anything to do with acute radiation sickness, there was nothing. You were _physically_ healthy.

Mentally was an entirely different matter. While there were so many other things that plagued your sleep, there was this one physical reminder that you could see in the reflection of the steel door. _Your hair._ Your head was shaved for the initial rounds of testing and it had been growing back for the last several months, as hair normally does, except with your original color came swatches of another. _White._

Those times you looked in the mirror and saw gray hairs, when Holly would hover around you with root-concealer, was roughly after the explosion. You chalked it up to stress more than age, but with these nuggets of information in your hands, _exposure_ made it on your list. Radiation made hair fall out. This kind of radiation was changing the pigment of yours. Was it because this was not _normal_ radiation? _Duh_.

You looked up from your notes as you heard rapping at your cell door. There was only one person who knocked courteously, and her interrogative patterns were old hat. Things were polite and sweet now, until she decided you were not going to give her what she wanted. Agent Bestley let herself in, a stack of books balanced in one hand, and a greased stained paper bag in the other.

“I didn’t expect you to be busy so early.”

“I didn’t sleep well,” You admitted, glancing up at the ceiling, “Might have something to do with the lights left on all day and night.”

She dropped everything on the table before you, and you started looking over the titles of the books: _Nuclei at High Angular Momentum; Direct Nuclear Reactions; Medical Effects of Ionizing Radiation; Essentials of Nuclear Medicine Imaging_ ; and even a handbook of _Radioactivity Measurements Procedures_ complete with nuclear data for some biomedically important radionuclides.

“I can say something about it.” She hummed, “You’re starting to make Doctor Swofford look bad.”

“I don’t have to try hard.” You opened one of the books, skimming over the contents while saying, “Instead of pumping me full of an electric current to recreate those _allegations._ He should be taking tissue samples to try and garner results in a more controlled environment.”

You started to pick up momentum, opening another book, “He doesn’t see the big picture. My cells may have mutated, but what does that mean? Am I resistant to radiation poisoning? Could we have found a biological way to produce energy? Could we _grow_ a better form of energy? What does this mean long-term for the human body, and will it be positive, or negative – and foremost, how can we use this to further –"

You were interrupted as the agent dropped the bag on your notes. “I managed to postpone your experimentation till the end of the committee’s verdict and you want to dive right back in?”

With an indignant snort, you removed the bag and frowned at the greasy splotch on your papers. “I won’t object to minor tests and offering samples, so long as I'm not incapacitated like before. This is just an opportunity for –"

“You _do_ realize you’re not at work.” She took a seat across from you and started closing your books, stacking them to the side. “You realize you are a criminal, and your charges are serious. That’s why you’re _here_. I didn’t bring you all this for you to forget.”

Agent Bestley had a cold, albeit comforting, tone that you appreciated. Sometimes you had to be reminded of your place, and that she was not your friend. You sighed, crossing your arms and sitting back. “So, which is it, then? Am I a criminal or a lab rat?”

“You don’t have to be either. Listening to you go on and on about this, you don’t belong here. You can make this right,” She sounded more angry than persuasive; “You don’t need to protect those aliens. They have guns the size of houses. In case they turn on us, we need to have an edge, and we have to start from somewhere. You keeping that from us makes things much worse than what unsanctioned work you’ve already done.”

They didn’t know the Autobots like you had. It was hard to see them turning on humans. You snarked cynically, “I’m an enemy of the human race, got it.”

“But you don’t have to be.” Her pitch switched to something light and good-natured, “You can help us, lessen your sentence, and maybe I can work something out where you’re allowed back in a lab on the _right_ end of a microscope.”

“I’ve helped all I could.” You huffed, lip twitching, “I’m not stupid. I’m still slated for the electric chair, one way or another.”

Agent Bestley’s amiable mask fell away to a frown. She drew in a deep breath and glanced away, searching for the words that were lost to her. You weren’t wrong, and she wasn’t about to insult your intelligence by trying to convince you otherwise. She busied herself by clearing the table and sliding the greasy bag between the two of you.

You continued on this cold, pessimistic train. “You brought breakfast. What do you want?”

“I should be worried that I'm so easy to read.” She tensed under her faux-genial mannerisms, but was more than willing to take on a different subject. “Sometimes I forget you know a bit about psychology.”

You barked out a laugh, “don’t flatter me. You’re not the type to _forget_.”

Agent Bestley shot you a smirk, “And you’re not easily flattered.”

It was a relationship as old as time: the jailor and the prisoner. You knew what Agent Pauline Bestley was, and she was _not_ your friend – yet she was the only friendly face you could converse with, _and man did you crave conversation_. It was a dance where you watched your every step as casually as you could, just to have a modicum of human interaction on a much kinder and simpler level.

“Sometimes. I am flattered that your bosses thought me worthy enough to warrant a witty agent with a psych degree.” You didn’t make any moves as she started setting out the doughnuts within the bag. “One who will slowly torture me with high cholesterol.”

That earned you a snort of laughter as she handed you one. “I was chosen because, according to Agent Simmons, you’re a sociopath that requires the utmost caution.”

You tore into the sugary confection and responded with a full mouth, “He said psychopath, too. He knows there's a difference, right?” You swallowed before continuing, waving the doughnut around. “Is he still going on about me?”

“Like a bad break-up.” She started to pull apart an éclair to nibble. “Blames you for _everything_.”

You rolled your eyes in response. “How can a place even employ someone so hostile?”

“You really need to ask? Just be glad someone saw reason and assigned me to you.”

“I should be grateful. Your interrogation methods may be a rollercoaster ride, but they do have perks.” You ended on that note with stuffing your mouth, again. Manners be damned, you spoke again with food in your mouth, “So, interrogate away, Agent.”

“Is that what you think this is?”

“You stopping by for a chat?” You asked, accompanied by muffled skepticism.

“Something like that. More or less a courtesy,” She said with an uncharacteristic amount of meekness.

_That_ raised a few red flags. You swallowed and set everything aside, wiping your hands on your shirt before folding them on the table. “You have my attention, Pauline.”

Agent Bestley seemed to flinch at her name spoken from your kind, yet serious, tone. Then, she absently patted her breast pocket, checking to make sure her notepad was still there. After so long of interacting with your jailor, you came to know her minute tells, and she was _nervous._ That made _you_ nervous. You ventured, “Are you even able to tell me?”

“I am.” She bit her lip, struggling to hold eye contact. “just...how to deliver it. I’m not that good at this part. They never covered this at the academy.”

Her open admission changed the air in the room. You found yourself taking on that familiar role of Lead Scientist and ordered, “On your own time, Agent. Just spit it out and we’ll work out what we can.”

“Markus Morgan died.”

You blinked. _Who?_

When there were no indications beyond your stone-cold face, Agent Bestley tried again, “Your father passed away in his sleep last night.”

It was like she spoke a foreign language and used a name from some ancient tablet long forgotten, buried in the past and left to rust and _die._ Your father was _dead_. That’s what she said. The man you called dad was gone. Her brows arched sympathetically as you finally expressed that you understood. Your eyes fell from hers and on to your hands, still neatly and professionally folded.

You thought you would start crying, but there was emptiness. You thought you would be angry, but the fire had died to a cold smolder. You never had the chance to get all your answers from him, but that stopped mattering to you some time ago, somewhere between helping the Autobots and being strapped to an examination table.

There was a time where you were hot with fury, wanting to shake the man as soon as he woke from his coma. When he did, you didn’t have it in you. You couldn’t confront the man who lied to you, who turned you into an accomplice in his crimes of unsanctioned experimentation. The only thing you felt in that moment was relief that he was _alive_. You allowed him to believe the lie that everything worked, that it was all perfect, and the trial was a success.

Thanks to Sunstreaker wearing the skin of your ex-fiancé, your father smiled before he fell back in his coma. He died believing you were happy. He never woke to see all he had wrought.

Now, you felt relief. You hoped it was peaceful for him. You hoped he slipped away quietly.

You met the agent’s eyes with a strength that made her glance away. “Do I have any rights to see his funeral?”

“A lawyer is carrying out his will, but I'm afraid you cannot be a part of the process. We can coordinate a time where you can visit the funeral home, see the casket, but that’s all I can do for you,” She said with a softness you were not used to.

You nodded, all business, “When is the service?”

“In a couple of days,” She explained, “I’ll be able to take you, but it will be at an unspecified time when no one is there. I’m sorry, it’s standard protocol.”

“Yes, I understand.” There was nothing to your tone, and she noticed.

Agent Bestley inclined her head sympathetically, “If you don’t want to talk to me, we can offer grievance counseling.”

“No, thank you.”

She eyed you closely, searching. “I get that everyone grieves in their own way, but...are you alright?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, debating if this is something you should share. You saw no harm in admitting, “It’s a complicated feeling. Relieved he’s not suffering. Guilty that I'm relieved. Does that make me selfish?”

“I think it’s normal.” She said with a genuine curve to her lips. Her hand came out to rest on yours. “Do you want to talk about your father?”

_No_. In the end, she was your interrogator. Not your friend. Not like those who you grew up alongside, and grew apart from. Not those who were once – or still are – your family. Not like those who betrayed you. Not like those who hurt you. Not like those who your father took into his home and treated like his own children.

In the end, you were not selfish, but you were. You craved human interaction. You craved answers. You craved an _end_.

You wanted to let Alan know not to worry about you. You wanted to let Henri know what he’d done to you. You wanted to let Bethany know what you’d do if she ever turned on your staff. You wanted to see the old faces. _One last time_.

“Could the others come with me? My dad was important to them, too.”

“I’m sorry,” She winced slightly, “its immediate family, only.”

In the end, you were also desperate. “Maybe we could work out a deal.”

* * *

“No! Absolutely not!”

Agent Bestley sat amongst her colleagues, ‘ _enjoying’_ three-day-old pastries and viscous coffee that she was sure gave her an ulcer. She threw a weary glance at the other three, who did varying expressions of frustration, annoyance, and exhaustion in return.

“Do I have to go over the charges? Violating human rights, perjury, false declarations, obstruction of justice, government fraud, resisting arrest, and treason.” The tall, sharply dressed agent snapped, “It’s been six months, Bestley, _six_! And _now_ they want to cooperate?”

Pauline took a long breath before addressing her coworker, “She turned herself into _you_ , Seymour, so how did she _resist arrest_?” She inclined her head to the others that sat with her, “and last I heard, the charge of treason hasn’t been passed, unless that changed. Did you guys hear anything?”

Mutters and murmurs along the lines of _no_ were her response.

Agent Seymour Simmons clenched his hands as he loomed over the group. “The only reason the charge is still being debated is because those _aliens_ are listed as allies of our country – and who knows how long that’ll last. That doesn’t change the fact that she lied to cover her tracks and provided them with sensitive information. That’s _still_ treason.”

To say that Pauline Bestley was irritated was an understatement. It was teeming within so much, it spilled out and barbed her words, “That’s for the court to decide. She’s already admitted to conducting experiments on a human without documented consent, grossly misusing government funding and resources without proper sanctioning.”

“And you believe she acted alone? What about her assistant?”

“I believe her staff was not culpable in their actions. They were following orders that they didn’t know were _illegal_. They’ve received fines and had their license suspended. As for Holly LeTene, Miss Morgan was already cleared on suspicion of collusion with a terrorist organization. LeTene was an infiltrator. She wasn’t working with my perp.” She brought the Styrofoam cup to her lips, saying before she stole a sip, “How many times must we go over this? She is _my_ suspect.”

Seymour continued to argue, pulling up a chair, “She is manipulative and _dangerous_. She’s a _freak_. Her body changed because of God-knows-what kind of mad scientist shit she got up to. She shouldn’t be allowed outside – she’s _using_ you.”

“She’s already been cleared for the outing.” She waved her hand dismissively. “And I’ve got the go-ahead from General Whalen – go complain to him. Better yet, go explain your case to the head of Sector Seven – unless grandpa already took you over his knee.”

“I will have your badge –!"

“I don’t think it’s your call anymore, Simmons.” Agent Vern Fox rubbed his eyes, groaning, “I regret telling Faireborn about Mr. Morgan’s death – I didn’t realize he could be even _more_ of an ass. It was a god-send that Miss Morgan put this offer on the table. I’m all for it.”

“A little outing in exchange for the intel on what makes the robots tick _and_ a cipher for the NBE language? I say it’s a fair deal,” Bestley said, “I don’t feel she’s trying to play us. I get the impression Mr. Morgan _was_ a father to them all. She wants to do what she feels is right, and that’s to give others a chance for closure. I’ve been chipping away at that misplaced loyalty she has, and maybe this was the breaking point we needed. She'll open up to me, soon. I can feel it.”

Agent Simmons huffed and puffed and crossed his arms disapprovingly.

She continued, snickering, “Besides, what's a few chained up and unarmed civilians going to do against four armed Agents?”

Fox chuckled confidently, “Absolutely nothin’.”

“And you don’t think that little sit-down she had with that punk was all just some ruse?” Seymour leaned forward, hands slapping on the table. “She could’ve been speaking in code.”

More mutters and chuckles as Bestley cocked a brow, dryly asking, “Speaking in _code_?”

“We were _there_ ,” Agent Fox scoffed, “No code, just the offer. We let them chit-chat a little, to see if there was anything, but mostly she shared what’s been happening with her. Faireborn agreed to rebuild the cipher with her. Didn’t try to talk her out of it or nothin’. No code.”

Pauline Bestley snuck in between the lines, “See? I said she could convince him.”

Agent Simmons huffed again and sat back, “Does that mean _everyone_ should go? Everyone gets to go on a little field trip?”

The other two agents spoke up.

“The Doctors say Arkeville junior should be good to take out. They want to see how he deals with outside stimuli,” Agent Dave Langer sipped his coffee before pointing a thick finger his way, “You should take advantage of that, Seymour. See if it lures his father out in the open. Y’know, tried and true, _basic_ work any greenhorn would know.”

“Miss Beller is more cooperative since being allowed visitation.” Agent Amelia Cort looked more relaxed this time around; her hair was tied back in a messy bun, and there was no makeup to her face – a stark difference to when she would see her perp. The brunette sniped in, “She responds to rewards, not _threats_.”

“Amelia, the softest agent on the force.” Seymour Simmons threw his hands in the air, “You’re all being so careless. You don’t understand –"

“They are not _your_ perps,” Agent Cort snapped. She still harbored loads of resentment for Agent Simmons barreling into her interrogation with Bethany, and threatened her child to get the evidence he needed against you. It wasn’t that Amelia sympathized with the young mother, but that was _her_ card to play – her ace. Agent Cort dug her nails into her Styrofoam cup. “Where’s the one _you_ were assigned? Oh, that’s right. Ivan Arkeville is still in the wind. Do you have any leads on Holly LeTene? No. Must be nice to be the grandson of the _Director_.”

“I’m _trying_ to keep you guys from making a mistake,” He scowled, then turned his attention back to the other woman, “Miss Morgan is a manipulator. I keep telling you, Bestley, she’s playing you like she played me.”

She scoffed, “Yeah, yeah, I know the whole story. Both sides, actually. She only started misleading you when she felt backed into a corner.”

Agent Cort couldn’t help but needle the younger man, “It seems _you_ were trying to do a little more than investigate her.”

“What I was doing was my _job_.” His neck turned red, slowly rising like a thermometer. “The methods I use are for lulling my subjects into a false sense of security. I had no other intentions on my part, but she –"

“Listen, man.” Agent Fox clapped Seymour on the shoulder. “I get it. You meet a pretty girl, and she smiles the right way, y’kinda forget the situation. Happens to the best of us, but you gotta get over it. It’s affectin’ your work.”

“I'm not –" He shrugged off his hand, tone heated at first. He took a moment to survey his colleagues, and they regarded him with irritated and tired eyes. He took a calming breath, “I’m just cautious. I’ll have a few men planted around the area in case something goes wrong.”

“Waste of manpower,” Langer added with a sigh, “you’re overreacting.”

“I’m just being careful.” He pushed himself to stand, giving one last glare at his coworkers. “You should be, too.”

With that, he left the room, storming his way to his office like he was on a mission – because he _was_. He picked up his phone, calling General Whalen, who promptly hung up on him when the argument became heated. Then, he struggled to call his grandfather.

Everyone who heard the Simmons name knew who got him this job. He started from the bottom, like most, and had to work a little harder because everyone treated him as spoiled. Between his grandfather, mother, and father, the bar was set impossibly high. Now, after what happened between you and him, how you _played_ him, made that bar nigh unreachable.

It was just a harmless attraction, at first. He was nice, a gentleman, and you _used_ that. You didn’t tell him no, or to leave you alone, or that you were engaged. _You made a fool out of him_. With that wound still aching with a lingering infection, he swallowed what little pride he had and called the Head of Sector Seven, his grand-father, Director Walter Simmons.

The conversation didn’t last long, and it was annoying how there was so much static over the line. The decision was final. You were not a threat. The cipher program and your inside knowledge was worth whatever risk Agent Seymour Simmons had envisioned.

Enraged, the man stormed out of his office. If he couldn’t stop this, then he would find every able-bodied agent to keep an eye on you and your party. He didn’t have that kind of pull like General Whalen, but he could at least call a few favors, or suck it up and actually throw the name of _Simmons_ around. He was so within himself, he rounded a corner and slammed right against a smaller woman.

The steel tray of coffee she had cascaded over her white blouse. With a yelp, she covered one of her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, dropping all she had on the floor, and doubling over to hold the lava-hot stains away from her skin.

Agent Simmons checked himself, and then this petite, freckle-faced girl. He didn’t recognize her wavy blonde hair, but there was something with how she fixed it back that made him think of you.

And thinking of you had him snap, “Watch where you’re going, Agent.”

“I’m so sorry, sir. I – I’m just an intern. I’m still getting to know the place and I was looking somewhere else, and I’m so sorry –"

She rambled in this pitched, nasal tone that grated his ears. “Stop, stop. Just stop.” It was almost cute how frantic she had got, but that _voice_. She continued to dab her sleeve over her eye, scrambling to clean up the mess she made. He knelt to help. “Hey, it’s okay. I was new, once. What are you interning for?”

“Technical Communications and Intelligence,” She glanced up at him. Her one eye squinted and blinked, as if recovering from the coffee spill, but the other, he noticed her light blue iris. It was close to the same kind of color that reminded him of Sam Striker – no, that wasn’t his name. The alien within that body was called _Sunstreaker_. You lied to him, used him, to help that _freak_.

Agent Simmons couldn’t hold back the surge of raw resentment that bubbled up, and this poor girl was the only one around. He lashed out, “Oh _good_. Maybe you can figure out why the fucking phones sound like Rice Crispies!” And with that, he was up and storming off, once again.

The young woman watched him leave, and her frazzled demeanor morphed to weary annoyance. The bastard didn’t even ask if she was alright. She offered a quick glance about before lifting the shining tray to her face, checking her eye. The coffee spill had her colored contact on the roam. She blinked and fixed it in place, then continued to wipe away a smudged freckle and fixed her hair.

She muttered with a completely different tone – a far cry from that irritating, grating, nasally accent she had adopted. It was deep, smooth, and _foreign_. 

_“Putain de salaud.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (No endnotes just yet, folks. Hang in there.)


	4. Playing the Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day to say goodbye has come. You pay your respects and face those you've been wanting to exchange words with for a long time.  
> But you might not get that chance.  
> Elsewhere, the machinations of others finally come to their climax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair WARNING: this chapter is a little heavy on grief. Funerals are not fun.  
> As much as I want to get to the action, I can't just *kick open door* Dad's dead, let's GOOO!  
> So yeah, introspective closure coming right up.  
> Also, snuck in a little 80s fact that's absolutely bonkers to me.
> 
> ALSO!  
> FANART!!!!  
> https://galaxy-foxx98.tumblr.com/post/642703145538093056/soooo-uhh-i-tried-to-draw-eva-i-really-wanted  
> I encourage everyone to check out Galaxy-foxx98 - super cute art, gamer, cute memes, and all-around just a chill blog I love following.  
> Thank you so much <3 I am super humbled that you took the time to share your art with me.

You rocked forward as the van stopped with a sudden jerk. An elbow dug into your ribs.

“ _Daaad_! She's on my side again!”

“I swear to God, Faireborn! I will take you back myself if you act up.”

Alan whined dramatically, “But _Daaad_!”

Agent Langer grumbled, closing the small window between the driver and the back of the van. Your tattooed friend settled after that, giving you the feeling he was acting up just to get that little semblance of privacy.

You heard the muffled voice of your assigned agent, but were unable to make out anything. If you couldn’t hear them, then it would stand to reason that _they_ couldn’t hear _you_.

_Yeah right._ Nothing was private. You weren’t thinking they had a hidden mic. No. They had a _mole_. Even in a prison jumpsuit, Bethany still had her hair styled in waves and her nails cleanly manicured. She didn’t look away from her lap, actively avoiding eye-contact, but you could still tell she was wearing a full face of makeup.

Her daughter, you could understand, but did she turn on you for a box of _fucking_ eyeshadow?

And then there was a man sitting beside her, someone you wouldn’t recognize from a distance. His blond hair was buzzed short for the ease of the tests he endured, and he was much thinner than you remembered. He was eager to meet your eyes.

It was difficult to describe this feeling as you humored him, locking your hard gaze on darker ones. Henri Arkeville was a stranger to you, but at the same time, he wasn’t.

_Different_ wasn’t an adequate word, but it was the first that came to mind. Henri was _different_. He didn’t look the same from those days of blissful ignorance. He had the same mannerisms you remembered, but they had a foreign feel, like watching a movie from your childhood and recalling the scenes only after they had transpired.

Henri’s odd dirt-colored eyes lit up hopefully, but you furrowed your brow with incredulity. He had no right to be excited to see you. You didn’t wish him dead, but you wouldn’t mind never seeing his face, again.

It reminded you of all the things that went wrong and all the things you couldn’t have.

_Someone_ you couldn’t have. _Someones._

Let’s not lie. _You_ changed. It wasn’t the three years of waiting for your ex-fiancé to wake, or your best friend walking out on you, or the countless hours you spent behind a microscope trying to fix a mistake you _thought_ you were responsible for.

It was that wonderfully frustrating time you spent with Sunstreaker.

“Eve –" Henri began, but the taller man beside you cut him off.

“Not today, man,” Alan said, low and intimidating, “We got a lot of shit we need to sort between ourselves, but not now. Today, we pay our respects.”

The full ensemble of cuffs and chains wouldn’t dissuade your friend from the throw-down he craved. You could tell from his jittering knee, lightly clinking the chains around his ankles. He spared you a glance, briefly checking to see if you had anything to add, and then eased himself back against the van wall.

You didn’t add anything because you didn’t know where to begin. You remained silent, looking away from your crestfallen Ex to yourself. You were all in that orange jumpsuit that screamed _guilty_ , the fabric rough and stiff with starch. It made your skin itch and riddle with welts, and the color always seemed to glow in your periphery. The whole thing was surreal, like a fevered nightmare, and you knew where it all started.

You found your tired gaze wandering back to Henri, and he only stared at his hands with moist eyes. This was the first time you saw him in _years_ and you wanted to say so much – _scream_ so much. Yes, he broke your heart, but that’s not why you wanted to feel his throat under your fingers. You wanted to rub his face in how you _wasted_ time on him and everyone was here because of _him_. No one would be here if he was just honest with you, if he never got your best friend pregnant, if he never lied, if he never left the house, if he never crashed his car, if you never dedicated years of your life to fixing him, if, if, _IF._

But you remained quiet. It was a busy dance-floor, the tempo hot and furious, and you were just exhausted. You couldn’t sleep last night, as the imaginary arguments kept your heart drumming the night away. You mapped out every response, listed everything you wanted to say, and when it finally came time, you ended up with too many dance moves and not enough energy. All you wanted was to sit and close your tired eyes, at least for now.

You felt Alan shoulder into you. His voice was low, “You seriously want me to help with the cipher program? Are we really going to do this?”

Bethany’s eyes flicked up over you two, touching on your guarded glare before retreating back down. The silent shake of your head and a quick jut of your jaw across the way had Alan turn his attention on her, and it was like a dog first noticing a rabbit in the yard. Everything tensed, and you _heard_ him grind his teeth.

“Oh, that’s _right_ ,” He said with a clenched jaw, his tone ragged and threatening to explode any moment. “Beth, did you know the shit you said about Eve got her some good ol’ fashioned electro-shock therapy?”

Her eyes came up momentarily, brows arched with what could be guilt – you weren't sure. Was it because she rued the consequences? Or that more of her sins were laid bare? Or was it all just an innocent act? Bethany’s face reddened and she sought to hide it, turning away as much as she could when Henri spoke.

“Therapy? What do you mean?”

“Its sarcasm, you fuckin’ moron,” your tattooed friend deadpanned, “Your side-piece told her agent a buncha shit about Eve, and now she’s getting tortured – but they call it _experimentation_.”

Henri’s mouth hung open, staring at the woman beside him. Then, like a freshly pumped drain, all the color in his face washed away. He turned his head slowly, eyes bouncing between you and Alan. “Side...piece... You know?”

He snapped, leaning forward, “Yeah. I know. We know. _Everyone_ knows. You think we’re fuckin’ stupid? She’s a gah-damn Biomedical Scientist and I’m a Technical Engineer specializing in callin’ out your shit. We were _friends_. I could fucking _murder_ you –"

“Alan,” You breathed out, rolling your shoulders to work off this suffocating weight that bore down. It was getting too noisy and all you wanted was the quiet opportunity to steal a micro-nap.

“I didn’t mean –"

“You did. You fuckin’ did you piece of shit-garbage. I know every goddamn thought of every goddamn minute because of Sunstreaker –"

“Sun...Who? That-that alien that took over my body? He saw my...he saw into _me_!?” Henri’s voice pitched hysterically.

“Alan, please,” You murmured, rubbing your eyes hard enough in an attempt to transcend space and time.

You were ignored as he continued to snarl and bark at the end of his chain, edging closer and closer off his seat. “Do they know that, yet? That asshole was rummaging around in your thick skull, seeing all your bullshit. Maybe I’ll make some shit up and say you could be a sleeper-agent for the aliens. You think they’ll just euthanize you before they crack you open?”

Bethany finally looked up, eyes wide as she shook her head. “No, don’t you even –"

“Why shouldn’t I? You keeping that juicy info in your back pocket for a _special_ occasion?” His cynical anger was almost worse than his _regular_ anger. “Maybe I can get in on your visitation, tell your little brat what you’ve done, you fuckin’ _monster_ –"

“Shut up!” You finally hit your limit. “Just shut up! I don’t want to do this right now! I’m about to see my dad and all this shit can wait!”

The van walls vibrated with a resounding _bang, bang, bang_ as one of the agents pounded on the divider. You heard Agent Langer shout, “Quiet, back there!”

You snapped your mouth shut, but glared at the two across from you. You tilted your head to Henri, hissing between clenched teeth. “You don’t deserve any more of my time, so I’ll say only this: everything is _your_ fault. And _you,_ ” You turned to Bethany, “If anything else comes out of your mouth, I _will_ find a way to take you down with me.”

Henri opened his mouth, and you immediately silenced him with a sharp flick of your hand, rattling the chains like tinkling wind chimes. You caught Alan in your periphery leaning forward, _daring_ someone to speak. What you said should be final. You deserved that.

Bethany and Henri went back to staring at their hands fidgeting in their laps, and Alan leaned back against the van wall, head reclined to look up at nothing. You hung your head, closed your eyes, and listened to the hum of the diesel engine. It had been some time since you heard such a simple sound, but it took you back to those days – the better days of ignorance. Not with Henri, but with those you called _friends_.

You missed the Autobots, and you wondered if they missed you. It was a feeling that tore you in half: you wanted to believe there was something out there, having nothing but love for you, missing you as if they were missing a part of themselves. You also didn’t want to believe something was out there in agony over your absence, and you wanted them to move on without you, painless and free.

You wrestled with this duality often, and always leaned to the selfless side. If Prowl or anyone else didn’t get you out by now, maybe they couldn’t. Maybe something happened. Either way, you weren’t worth the risk, and you accepted that. You held no grudges, as difficult as it was. 

You felt the van slow and jostle as it ramped a slight incline. The engine idled, the van lurched into park, and the sound died. Time seemed to stretch on as you listened in silence. The doors creaked open, then slammed shut. You finally raised your head as the back doors opened with that same screeching whine.

Agent Bestley and Langer assisted your step down on the wet pavement. Filing out, you took in the darkening sky of the sunset, finding the remnants of melting snow and the cold, breezy reminder that winter was still here, but spring was on its way. The last time you were outside, the leaves were beginning to fall from the trees. It was a surreal horror, to realize how much time you’ve lost and that the world never waits.

“Is the funeral tomorrow?” You obediently stood as Agent Bestley checked your chains.

“It was early this morning,” She responded briefly before moving on to the next perp.

You scanned the empty lot, distantly wondering if it was a lovely service – as many liked to compliment. They said the same at your mother’s funeral. _It was a lovely service_. You grimaced, pessimism coloring your thoughts. _The dead body looked radiant,_ they might as well have said. It didn’t matter. Your mother was dead, and now too, was your father.

All thoughts left you as your inspection of the thinly populated parking lot resulted in spotting Agent Seymour Simmons. He was glaring your way, and you could _feel_ the contempt chill your toes – _wait, no, that was a puddle_. You would have been more unnerved, seized with the feeling of fear, but you were already caught. There wasn’t anything else he could do to you. You stared back jadedly. Those dark eyes that used to rattle you only peered.

“Wonder how much he lost his shit when he heard we were going on a field trip,” Alan muttered behind you.

You finally found the will to look away from that black-hole glare, throwing over your shoulder, “You just called my dad’s funeral a _field_ _trip_.”

“At this point of our lives, a colonoscopy would be Disneyland,” He scoffed, “don’t pretend getting out of that place wasn’t the biggest relief there is, no matter where we’re heading. You smell that? Air. Polluted, smoggy, trashy _air_. I missed it.”

“Easy on the chatter,” Agent Langer warned, motioning you along to follow Agent Bestley.

You complied, walking in single file as your keepers fell in line. You nodded thanks to Bestley as she held open the door, and you halted almost immediately upon entering. It was an empty building, save for a single casket at the end of a long, floral red carpet.

The room seemed to stretch, rows upon rows of benches multiplying, one after another after another...

You didn’t feel your legs carry you, nor did you hear the clinking of your chains play your way down that long, long walk. You don’t remember passing each bench, smelling the sickening scent of flowers and perfume, or hearing the soft voices behind you. You were just suddenly _there_ , staring at the dead body of the man responsible for you being here – however you wanted to interpret that.

Alone, you stood by the side of the tacky – and probably fake – red mahogany casket. Your father lay there, surrounded by flowers that have long since wilted. He didn’t look the same. He was clean-shaven, skin pulled tight to accentuate his newly hollowed cheeks; his cheekbones brushed with blush and his lips painted to appear _so_ _full of life_.

It looked like the mortician _practiced_ on him.

Your mother didn’t look the same when she passed, why would he?

The feelings of guilt and relief swirled and flowed like oil and water. Never mixing, but intimately close in fluidity. He died believing you were triumphant and happy. You wanted to hate him for that. You wanted to hate him for lying to you. You wanted answers to try and understand why he betrayed your trust, but in the end, you felt you had nothing left. You were too tired to hate him. Everything was just so _draining_.

“At least it was peaceful, yeah?” Alan said softly from over your shoulder, “He had to have felt guilty for the shit he did, but he thought you succeeded, and I think he wanted you to be happy. That should mean something.”

You didn’t realize he stepped up behind you, and you weren't sure how long you stood there, staring and lost within yourself. “It should,” You said quietly. It didn’t. It didn’t mean a _God damn thing_.

“Succeeded?” Henri took a bold step up beside Alan. “Succeed how? But I wasn’t – oh, so...he saw that alien –"

“Yeah,” he spat, “Sunny wasn’t a saint, but he did good. Better than you – and that’s sayin’ something. The guy was _sucha_ bastard.”

It was the sound of his name that made you want to cry. _Sunstreaker_. The one thing that plagued your sleep. You had no way of contacting the Autobots or receiving any form of communication to tell you that he was _okay_. You had no idea if he recovered or if that little stunt you pulled had any negative effects. You wanted to know if you kept your promise, if he was happy and healthy, reunited with his brother. Not knowing was worse than those experiments and the mystery of your new mutations. 

“I’m done.” You turned away from the casket and started walking down the short aisle to your assigned agent.

The woman led you out without a word to anyone. Upon exiting, she posted up alongside the wall and lit a cigarette, gesturing you to stand upwind.

“You do know that there have been studies to prove those are bad for you?” You stood in the designated spot, grateful to breathe clean air – or _trashy_ air, according to Alan.

Agent Bestley hummed a chuckle, “If it was, why do they let kids as young as sixteen smoke at school?”

You huffed, looking off at the orange sky, “because the government is not in tandem with medical science? You tell me.”

“Are you saying there’s a conspiracy?” She snorted, “Are you literally telling a government agent there's a government conspiracy? Never lose that sense of humor.”

Alan was led out by his assigned agent, Vern Fox, and the tattooed man immediately gravitated to Bestley. “Hey, hey, have mercy.”

She lit one up and passed it to him. Fox said before walking out to the lot, “No word on Ivan Arkeville. I’ll coordinate with the rest and pull the van around. Simmons will probably stick it out and keep an eye on the area.”

His name used to make your skin crawl with shame. Now? The cold made your skin prick up more. You hated compromising your morals, but you hated Agent Simmons more. Back when you were treated with an ounce of respect, he was a roadblock that refused to move, hounding you for your attention at every turn – even if you weren’t sneaking under his nose to return Sunstreaker back to his body, the man’s attitude towards you was unprofessionally abhorrent for someone of his position.

But you didn’t regret the choices you made, ultimately making him your enemy, and turning _you_ into some _‘manipulative black widow’_. According to Alan, you couldn’t seduce your way out of a wet paper bag, so whose fault was it _really_? You thought coldly, _those who play in the road will eventually get hit._

Alan groaned as he inhaled the nicotine, “So when we get back, how much time you think they’ll give before they put us to work?”

“Not much time at all,” Bestley answered honestly, watching her fellow agents escort the other two in orange out.

Bethany instantly pleaded for a cigarette and was rewarded. Agent Cort and Langer both relaxed up against the building’s stone wall, looking out at the night sky. Oddly, everyone fell into this semi-comfortable silence, staring up at the soft lavender blues overtaking the fiery orange overcast.

You were expected to perform when you returned. You were expected to submit and provide what they’ve been trying to get for months. You were expected to convince your more tech-savvy friend to comply and help recreate the cipher program. You were expected to impart all your knowledge on how an average Cybertronian works. You were expected to betray the friends you had made – your _real_ friends, Alan notwithstanding.

You took a deep breath and prepared to quash _all_ of those expectations. You got to see everyone one last time, those you loved and those you hated. You’ll say your goodbyes, soon, and you’ll never see the world outside again as your jailors would throw away the key. Was it suicide? You prepared yourself to find out.

You harbored no ill towards the Autobots for not coming for you. They needed Earth’s resources to help with their war. You only wished you knew how Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were doing. Did their feelings for you fade? If so, you’d understand. You were only a single organic being and they were much more than that. If this is how things would play out, then you wouldn’t fight it anymore.

Movement off to the side drew your attention.

A car pulled in the lot with a sharp squeal of its tires. Everyone instantly went on high alert. The only difference between you and Agent Bestley was that your hand didn’t float to the gun strapped to her hip.

The car slowed and sat, sitting there with a rumble of its engine. Agent Cort stalked forward. “Langer, Bestley, stay with them.”

Agent Fox left his objective from retrieving the van to approach the new vehicle at its flank. You prayed it wasn’t one of your staff playing the hero. You had it worked out with every single one of them to play the _‘I had no idea what she was having me do’_ card, and they would only suffer minor consequences. They had their _lives_ to live. 

But it couldn’t have been anyone you knew, but there was one who was wanted, one who slipped out of the grasp of your captors: _Holly LeTene_.

No. _No._ She wouldn’t drive such a flashy red, white, and blue sports car. It was too bright, too noticeable.

Especially with those obnoxious _38’s_ on the doors.

{0.0}

_Meanwhile, in the underground labs of Sector Seven:_

Her steps were quiet, unlike the nurse and two big orderlies that tailed behind. It wasn’t like she was trying, it was just a habit Holly LeTene developed while doing what she’s always done best.

Her movements were fluid, practiced, as she flung open the door to one of the many offices on this floor. Doctor Gregory Swofford looked up in a start, and before he could open his mouth, a tranquilizer dart hit its mark.

Holly didn’t miss a single step while aiming for the soft spot under his jaw, entering the room and taking her place behind his desk while the nurse started thumbing through his files. The orderlies pushed in the laundry bin, dumped in their newly acquired scientist, and covered him up with linens.

The whole room was tossed in a matter of seconds. The cart filled with research materials on multiple levels, all confidential, _all valuable_. Everything, except for any material on _you_. Holly collected all that in the waste paper basket as the orderlies stripped open the computer tower.

“Commandant.” The nurse called for her attention, handing Holly the hard-drive.

The thing was huge and clunky and _fragile_. Holly glanced up at those who looked to her for orders, her little undercover staff that kept an eye on you. “Remember: east wing, parking lot C has been cleared. Dismissed.”

One of the men saluted her. “Hail Cobra.”

She waved her hand, shooing them like flies. That _blind loyalty_ always irritated her. The orderlies left, wheeling out the terrorist organization’s _new_ _employee_ and a cache of information that was bound to make her half-sister pleased.

Holly pocketed the hard-drive and pulled out a lighter. She knew her operative had shut off the sprinkler system, but the nurse still felt the need to voice it.

“The alarm system has been disengaged.”

The petite woman dropped the lighter in the waste-paper basket, and the thin papers of your files went up. Casually, she walked out of the office, side by side with her underling, and shut the door behind them.

Holly pulled an ornamental hairpin from her dye-blonde hair and wedged it inside the slot of the card reader, rendering it unusable. No one would get in without breaking down the door, and by then, the fire would have consumed the room. Just as the infiltrator intended.

“Ma’am?” The nurse asked, a worried edge to her tone, “They – they’ll know who did this if you –"

“I want them to know this was Cobra...” A slow smile grew on Holly’s face. On the hairpin she jammed in the slot, was a small ornament of a cobra head. She started strolling down the hall towards her next objective. “And _only_ Cobra.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Originally, the above with Holly was supposed to be an endnote, but it fleshed out to be such a badass scene that I felt it deserved to be part of the main story.)


	5. Liability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The funeral becomes a warzone.  
> The warzone becomes Hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh were you attached to the Agents that I cobbled up just to toss aside?  
> Haaa of course you weren't. 
> 
> Enjoy. It's finally here.

Agent Pauline Bestley demanded for everyone – including you – to follow. Your attention darted between obeying the agent and this not-so-subtle car that just pulled up into the funeral home parking-lot. Panic mounted as you prayed it wasn’t someone you knew attempting some dashing rescue. They would only be rewarded with a face full of bullets.

You worked hard to keep the casualties of your choices to a minimum. You desperately didn’t want a body on your hands, and the thought of someone dying in _your_ name fixed you in place. You watched, eyes wide open and transfixed in horror as a group of agents stalked closer to the vehicle, pistols leveled. _They were prepared to kill_.

Maybe it was some out-of-towners, maybe some stupid kids looking to taunt people in suits _with guns_ – no that didn’t make any sense. Why would _anyone_ tease a flock of uniformed professionals? You tried to connect the dots, but you ran out of string.

“Langer, help me get them into that car.” Paired with the image of her firearm already in her hands, Bestley’s alarm to her tone was immobilizing. You forgot how to command yourself to _move_.

Only one brain-cell was active, and it was busy trying to shove a circle shaped block in a square-shaped hole, then a star-shaped, then triangle, then oval, then just a solid wall as you tried to piece together what was happening. Who was in the car? Why would they be here? Why did it look like a _fucking_ demo-derby racer?

_Maybe this was a distraction_.

Flair equals attention.

That was your only rational thought before Alan shouldered into you, shoving you to just _go_. Agent Langer took the rear, pistol in hand, safety off. He started pushing everyone along, barking orders. You finally found you had these limbs called legs, and you used to move them to ambulate. _Ambulate_. Walk. You followed Agent Bestley in hurried steps.

Agents Amelia Cort, Seymour Simmons, Vern Fox, and several nameless others circled this flashy sports car. The vehicle just idled there, motionless, while they closed in. The windows were completely blacked out, not a single light shone from the inside, no silhouette to be had. Whoever was inside was completely undeterred by the shouting from the armed agents.

Bestley pushed you by the passenger door of the closest, standard-issue government vehicle. She barked at you to stay in place and threw open the back doors to get everyone else inside. You complied, only because you were captivated by the scene, like watching a pileup in slow motion. You were helpless to do anything else.

Then, the sports car windows rolled down. Black smoke pumped out, _poured_ out like a liquid.

You made noises. Not sure _what_ sounds you made, but it was Agent Dave Langer who grabbed Bestley’s attention when he breathlessly exclaimed, “Mother of God.”

The smoke obscured the car completely and swirled like a terrible cloud, swallowing up everyone around it, growing more and more. Your heart pounded hard as the Scientist inside you screamed from her containment: _Don’t breathe it in!_

“Cort! Fox!” Langer bellowed, holding up his gun as the smoke swallowed them whole, _disappearing_ them completely.

_Was it a knockout gas?_ The sound of cries and gunfire had you searching for the door handle. _Results of_ a _pained response?_ _Poison or a nerve agent? Results unknown. Evacuate immediately._

“Call for back-up!” Bestley somehow was able to keep the scene from rendering her immobile, and she used that to shove Henri in the car. Beth and Alan piled in readily, almost fighting for who gets in next. Then, your agent yanked you back, hurled the passenger door open, and she hurried your frozen form inside.

Amongst the chaos, you heard her partner say, “My radio is out...”

_Communications severed_ , the strategic Scientist within translated. _Organized. Professionals. Objective unknown. Evacuate area immediately._

The passenger door slammed shut, doing nothing to muffle your assigned agent’s frantic pleading. The gas lapped at her legs as she ran around the driver side of the car. “Dave! What the hell are you doing!? We have to –"

“Get the prisoners outta here!” He shouted.

You turned in your seat to watch that brave man start to enter the smoke. He called out, “They’re still in there! Amelia! Babe, lemmie hear ya!”

The wall of smoke seemed to lurch, swallowing up the agent and the car you sat in. You were consumed in complete darkness— pitch, inky, blackness so thick you felt you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t see a _damn_ thing. You couldn’t even tell if your eyes were _open_! You instinctively pulled your uniform over your mouth, trying very hard to convey to the rest to cover their own, but could barely raise your voice over Bethany’s shrieking.

“What's happening? Was that car on fire?”

“We’re gonna get hit with a stray bullet if we don’t get the fuck out, _now_!” Alan yelled over her.

Your probability of death, and the death of others, continued to rise. You were paralyzed with the indecision of _what to do_. You were at the mercy of your keepers, completely reliant on them to protect you. They were having difficulty protecting themselves. You were no longer wondering if this was a rescue attempt, but an _assassination_. You didn’t know _why_ you would be targeted, but your brain wasn’t working so optimally.

You heard Agent Bestley try to open the driver door, jerking the latch several times before banging on the window. “Open the door!”

“I can't see!” You cried, but still reached over, feeling and searching along the window down to the lock along the door frame. You pulled it up. “It’s open! It’s open!”

She pulled on the handle, nearly rocking the car. “It’s locked! Let me in! Let me in!”

You heard everyone try their door latches, and you yanked so hard on the driver side you should have snapped the handle off.

The unseen chaos outside deafened the noise inside. Glass shattering, metal screeching, something like an explosion or a crash – you could only rely on the imagery that played in your mind. A bomb? Cars running into another? A building collapsing? Screams ensued, cries for help, cries for mercy, intertwined with reports of gunfire cracking the sky like lightless fireworks.

Then it all stopped.

You barely breathed, hearing only the soft whimpers and curses from those in the back seat, all taking in the blind silence. 

Then someone out there screamed, “No! _Nooo_!”

You recognized the voice. _By god, it was Agent Simmons._

You screamed sharply as something loud screeched much closer, the sound coming from literally outside your door, like metal skidding by.

Agent Bestley was sobbing into her radio, begging for help. She was calling for anyone, her coworkers – her friends. Her fear leaked through the windows and mixed with yours. Someone as level-headed as her, someone who you – despite her role in your relationship – felt you had the most in common with, shattered into a quivering mess on the other side of the door. You grinded your teeth, grunting with each wrench on the door handle. You wanted to _help her_.

“Move!” Alan’s voice barked as he pushed you aside, helping himself up to the front seat. “Is there keys? No? Fuck it.”

Even blinded, you could feel him crawling down under the steering wheel. Instantly, you were on board, helping him in any way you could by pushing.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Henri cried at the sound of another shattering crash.

“Getting us outta here!” His legs kicked, and you guided his feet to the seats and _not_ your face, for leverage.

“You can’t see shit!” Bethany screamed.

“Shut up! I need to focus!” Alan snapped, “I’m doin’ this from memory. I’m not gonna sit here and –"

The car roared to life. Agent Bestley started banging on the window like she was going to smash her way through. She could have. She was using the butt of her gun. “Let me in! Don’t you –!"

The car squealed off and the force threw everyone back against their seat.

“Alan! You did it!” Bethany cried.

“I didn’t do shit!” He wriggled and squirmed to get himself sitting upright.

Lights came on in the car, illuminating the only smoke-free space and revealing the horrified faces of everyone.

“Holy fuck!” Alan started kicking back away from the steering wheel. “I’m not driving! I’m not _fucking_ driving!”

Before your eyes, the simple beige interior of the car fuzzed and fizzled like bad reception, dissolving to a sleeker, more stylish silver and blue. You didn’t have the cognitive ability to appreciate the look of it, let alone such a _neat trick_.

Bethany started screaming. Henri started screaming. Alan started screaming. It all dissolved into just _noise_ as you tried to hear yourself think, _force_ yourself to think, because the only thing skittering in your brain was a scared little rabbit telling you to _run_. You devolved into the lizard-brained flight-response and continued to pull at your door-latch, twisting about in your seat to search for escape.

Finally, natural _light_. You halted your efforts to take in your surroundings. The dusky remnants of the setting sun lit your way, exposing the open road. The smoke-gas cloud was behind you, fixed in place but still rolling and swirling like a gelatinous tornado-blob. There were no other cars behind you. No one else escaped.

The car turned sharply, jerking everyone to the side as you headed for an industrial area. Your head whipped into the window, cracking sharply. The screaming, cussing, and crying became ringing in your ears. Your hand instantly tangled in your hair to soothe the injury while your eyes blurred involuntarily.

The dash flashed a shade brighter, and you heard a _gasp_.

_My God._

Your mind instantly flooded with thoughts of _Bluestreak_ and his internal lights, fluctuating with his emotions during those long drives filled with hours of talking.

_It’s...this is..._

You planted your hand on the dashboard and hunkered down over the speaker in the door. “Who are you?”

“I’d tell you if everyone stopped with that _noise_ ,” responded an unfamiliar and clearly agitated voice.

Alan and you exchanged owlish, disbelieving stares. He was the first to move, turning and swatting for silence in the back seat. When Bethany quieted to whimpers, and Henri to hyperventilation, the voice from the speakers continued, “Much better. I'm Mirage, and...”

Light reflected in the mirrors, and you caught on to headlamps fast approaching from the rear. “...That’s Smokescreen.”

“It’s the aliens – you called the aliens!?” Bethany shrieked.

“I didn’t call anyone! How could I?” You shot back while holding up your hands, tugging the chains to prove a point.

“Then your boyfriend must have sent them!” Her pitch was grating enough to make your transportation groan miserably.

“Boyfriend?” Henri asked incredulously, “ _Who_?”

“He’s not – God! What are you, twelve?!”

“Do you have _another_ name for the alien that infected Henri?” The blonde sneered.

Alan snapped in your defense, “And _you_ whored up to the guy, trying to keep your nasty secret quiet.”

“What?!” Henri squawked, “What did he do while he was in my body?!”

_Things you weren’t willing to admit_. Bethany wasn’t wrong in accusing you of getting close to Sunstreaker, it’s just that no one needed to know _how_ close you let him.

“It this really the time?” You tried to yell above the rest, only for your Ex to point at you.

“You’re avoiding the question!”

You’re tone hit a new pitch, “We’re running from the cops, Henri!”

He matched it. “It’s a simple answer!”

It really wasn’t. _No demands. No expectations_. You and Sunstreaker never made anything official when you parted ways. Before you could open your mouth to tell him every venomous thing you could think of, to rip out that dagger of betrayal from yourself and plunge it into him, your chariot had enough.

“That’s it!” Mirage suddenly threw everyone to one side as he veered down a side road, pulling behind an alleyway and into an abandoned warehouse – all the while ignoring cries and protests. His doors flew open. “Everyone out! _Out_!”

You timidly exited while everyone else seemed to hit the ground running. You turned expectantly, walking backwards to watch the car change into the alien race you so fondly remembered. The transformation happened quickly but your heart still _sang_ as if it was the first time.

You almost forgot what it felt like: the threads of curiosity and wonder holding your breath hostage.

Smokescreen pulled in, transforming fluidly without missing a step as he came up beside him. “What are you doing? We have to go before the humans regain communications –"

“You take them!” Mirage paced. “I left my team, I’ve had my alt-mode changed and it feels so _weird_ , I’ve had fleshlings _drive_ me, and those _things_ are so _loud_!”

“Calm down, buddy.”

“I am calm! Everybody is calm!”

Alan raised his hand. “I’m not.”

Mirage pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should have never agreed to this. I should have stayed with Kup and –"

“Hey, hey.” Smokescreen patted his shoulder. “It’s over. The hard part is done. Mission almost complete, but we gotta go. The launch is being delayed because of _us_.”

You listened quietly for long enough and raised your hand with an uncharacteristic amount of politeness for your given situation. “Um, excuse me, mission? Did you say mission?”

“You're that human, Doctor Morgan, right?” Smokescreen pointed at you, giving his teammate a reassuring shake.

You nodded, stepping forward and away from your comrades. “You know who I am?”

“Yeah. We were sent to get you.”

“To _rescue_ you,” Mirage clarified, “We’re taking you home.”

“Home?” Henri came up beside you, eyes nervously darting between you and those tall mechanical aliens he’d only seen in pictures. “What are they talking about? You can’t go home. Those agents will find you.”

You weren't listening to him as the word _launch_ boomed in your mind. You breathed out, “The AOS.”

“The what?” Bethany squeaked.

“The Autobot Orbital Station...in _space_.” Alan shook his head and let out a whistle. “ _Their_ home. You gonna go?”

You rocked with your pounding heart. The chanting inside your head of _freedom, freedom, freedom_ , overwhelmed all other logic buried under the last dregs of adrenaline. Yet, you managed to compile a list in mere milliseconds on reasons why you _should_ : No more solitary confinement; safety from those torturous experiments; the ability to keep your inside knowledge on the aliens safe from humans; and there was _nothing_ holding you here. Your father gone, your workmates out of harm’s way, your friends...

You looked back at them. Only one was considered your friend, and he looked at you like you were _crazy_. Alan flicked his hands in a _shoo_ gesture. “Dontcha got someone you’ve been wantin’ to check on?”

You nearly choked, gasping and swallowing it down. The image of their faces flickered by.

Then that horrible voice of reason reared its terrible head. It parroted one of the many reasons you allowed yourself to be taken by the law, “What about the Alliance? What you did – won’t it cause – ah, the _bad_ things?”

Words were still a challenge to string together.

“What _about_ it?” Mirage spat, then Smokescreen motioned you to calm down. You didn’t realize why until you noticed the rattling of your chains. _You were shaking_.

“What my partner is trying to say, is that there’s no proof that the Autobots had anything to do with this. Don’t you worry, a _lot_ went into putting this together.” He knelt to your level with a smile that reminded you of Bluestreak. “Everything is planned out – except for this part. Are you going to come with? Or do you want to go back?”

_Everything is planned_. The Autobots found a way to save you – _someone_ did! Was it Prowl? Or Sunstreaker? Sideswipe? Jazz? Hell, you’d even guess Bluestreak. You marched up to the two mech’s so fast, they flinched. You held up your arms, spreading the chains taut. “Yes. I’ll go.”

“I didn’t realize you had a choice.” Mirage brought up his gun, but Smokescreen smacked it aside.

“You glitch! Wheeljack didn’t mess with your processor.” He leaned closer to you, carefully pulling apart the chain-links without hurting you in the slightest. “And of course she has a choice.”

“I was told to bring her – not to _offer_ her a rescue.”

“Well we weren’t told to _kidnap_ her!”

“We weren’t told _not_ to.”

They continued to argue as you turned away to face the others, looking over the links that still held your legs. You would worry about the cuffs later as you looked up in time to see your old, backstabbing _friend_ plead.

“Eevee,” Bethany breathed, “Are you – are you actually _going_?”

“I am,” You said with an unnerving amount of calm. “If the experiments won’t kill me, they’ll find some other way, I’m sure. I never planned on helping with...I wasn’t going to help them.”

“I knew it,” Alan muttered.

She looked genuinely confused. “Then why did you make the deal?”

“To see _you_.” You could barely speak between clenched teeth, desperately pulling back on this fiery horse, eager to race towards _war_. “Because of you, I'm stripped and strapped to a table. Do you have any idea what it feels like to have thousands of amps course through you?”

She wouldn’t bow. Her spine straight with her own convictions. “You have _no_ idea what was at stake. They threatened my daughter.”

“Of course they did! They needed the leverage!” You snapped, “But did you have to tell them _everything_? Did you have to tell them what _wasn’t_ on footage? Or – or even confirm that was _me_ in the picture? You weren't there, you didn’t know!”

“I had to give them _something_!”

Your fists clenched at your sides, feeling that impulse of tackling her to the ground. You checked yourself with a quick huff. “Whether you lost your head or you did it to spite me, whatever. They shaved my head and treated me like a test subject, and I wanted you to see what _you_ helped them do. I wanted to see you and tell you, if you involve anyone else I care about, I will say _anything_ I can to make sure the same happens to you.”

Bethany blanched, saying nothing. You saw her put together what would ensue if she was in the same position. You could guess that the pain wasn’t what frightened her, but of never seeing her daughter, again.

Alan broke up the moment, stepping towards the bots and holding up his arms. “I’m going with.”

Your head whipped to him so fast, it should have twisted right off. “Are you serious?”

“I always wanted to see robo-space.” He grinned. “Besides, you’re going. Someone has to make sure you don’t get dead.”

“Uh, we were only ordered to take her.” Mirage crossed his arms, refusing to make a move to free the man. “And I heard _things_ about a certain human wearing decal.”

“Oh, I'm famous?” He chuckled as would an evil mastermind. “You see, we’re a pair, like the wondertwins.”

“No, we’re not,” You corrected.

“She can’t do a thing without my help.”

“Yes, I can, all the time.”

“We are a package deal, and my boys up there miss me so.”

“ _That_ I know is a lie.” Mirage side-glanced at Smokescreen before smirking. “But you know what, not my problem. I am more than happy to drop you off at the station and go _far_ away.” He reached down to break the man’s bonds.

Henri stepped forward. “I want to go.”

Alan offered his thoughts on the matter. “The fuck you are.”

“What?” You were genuinely surprised. You expected him to want to run and hide, but as far as you knew, _he_ wasn’t subjected to any torturous experimentation. Why would he want to hole up with the aliens, one which hijacked his body? “You’re not even guilty of anything.”

He gestured to the length of himself, “I’m not, but look at what I’m wearing. What if someone thinks like Al, and decides an autopsy would be worth more than keeping me alive? Who’s to say they won’t crack open my skull, tomorrow?”

“Sounds like a _you_ problem,” Your tattooed friend slipped in there.

It was difficult to be impartial, as you _definitely_ agreed with Alan. The man you loved hurt you, betrayed you, but the anger you felt towards him was vastly different than what you felt for Bethany. With her, you felt raw, boiling fury simmer under your skin. You wanted to open the door, let out the hounds, and fall to the primal impulse of feeling your teeth at her throat.

With Henri, your anger was still, like a frosty brick wall. You would rather close the door and leave him in the cold. You didn’t want to kill him, but you certainly weren't going to save him. Henri had every right to be afraid, and he was finding out _you_ weren’t the one to come crying to.

You said with a disturbing amount of dismissiveness, “You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you,” He countered, and you witnessed his genuine confusion and alarm at your indifference. “And I’m not staying to find out. I don’t want to die.”

Your knee-jerk reaction was _deplorable_. You actually _shrugged_. “Fine. We’ll drop you off somewhere along the way –"

“Wait, seriously? Is this because –? No, wait. _Wait_." Henri went into full panic-mode as he started piecing together what was about to happen. You were planning on leaving him somewhere on the side of the road while you gallivanted off with some alien in _space_ , living out the fantasy of a science-fiction romance enthusiast.

You turned away as he started babbling in a desperate attempt. “Don’t do this. We need time to talk but – but if you just leave me somewhere, then-then what if the police find me? What if the agents find me? They could torture me to try and find out where you are. What do I tell them? What-what if I can’t handle it? I _need_ to go with you, let me come with you, _please_.”

You froze mid-step. That frigid wall of anger slowly melted into something you wanted to drown him in. _That son of a bitch._ He _knew_ the Autobots were being clandestine about this and he _dared_ threaten their safety to get to _you_?

Not once in your relationship did you feel Henri ever manipulated you, but he certainly lied to you about his feelings for a _long_ time. Slowly, you turned your glare on him. You watched the Adam’s apple in his throat bob. Was he always this way, or was he rapidly adjusting to his situation? It was almost like you were seeing him for the first time, through new and worldly eyes.

“I can fix this, right now,” Mirage offered.

You glanced back behind you, realizing they stopped arguing a while ago and started listening in.

“No, Mirage,” Smokescreen vented out loudly, “What would we do with the body? Organics take a while to rust away. We can’t just leave evidence lying around.”

“Well, we can’t just leave witnesses, either.”

Alan made an agreeable noise and you turned back to hush him, catching the look on Henri’s face. _Terror incarnate_. He stared at the mechs who deliberated _silencing him permanently._ You indulged in a brief moment of pleasure before the responsible part of you encompassed your very being. You didn’t want anyone’s death on your hands, inadvertently or otherwise. More so, you didn’t want to risk your Autobot friends and the pact they had with your people.

You had to prioritize, and right now, getting safely away from all threats was paramount. You had to focus beyond grudges and emotions and think rationally; only then could you figure out what to do with everyone.

You waved for Smokescreen to break your Ex’s chains. “He’s coming with.”

Henri blew out a breath you could feel through your jumpsuit. He flinched and whimpered when those big metal hands pulled apart his bonds.

And then there was one.

You turned to Bethany. Her bleary eyes flitted about before landing on you. The air that hung between pressurized with unspoken words, charged with a tension that silenced everyone around you. You didn’t know how many moments passed where you stared at one another, but in that small fleck of time you knew what you had to overcome.

Bethany wasn’t a stranger to the way your mind worked. She shook her head minutely. “Josie... I can’t leave her.”

“Your daughter is safe, right now. _You’re_ not.” You spoke slowly, deliberately, “What do you think will happen if you’re caught?”

“I’m _not_ going with these aliens and leaving my baby behind. None of this would have happened if these _things_ didn’t come get you –"

“Then I would have died on that table!” Your patience was clipped short, “The one _you_ sent me to _._ ”

_Easy_ , you told yourself, _calm_. You had to go about this smartly. _Keep your enemies closer_ , that’s what they say, and Bethany ticked all the boxes of a liability. She would squeal in an instant on who your rescuers were, and you had no doubt in your mind, if you weren't there to keep her in check, she would turn in your team you worked so hard to protect.

Those terrible people who worked for your government used her daughter against her once, and you knew they would do it, again. She would tell any story she could to see her child and keep her safe. You were damn bitter about it, but you _understood_.

You tempered your tone to something gentler. “Come with us, and we’ll figure something out. We’ll get Josephine, find a place for you to hide, right?” You looked for confirmation from the bots. They shrugged and nodded. They didn’t seem prepared for this kind of drama in the _least._

“You really think it’s that simple? To leave everything behind? My job, my family? Just hole up in some no-name town in the middle of a desert?” Tears followed her mascara tracks. “If I run and they find me, they’ll lock me back up and put her someplace awful.”

“Bethany,” You said, your tone lower than you intended, “Let me help you.”

You weren't doing this for her. You weren’t doing this to _help_ her. There was some ugly part of you that _wanted_ her to suffer for hurting you. You hated that part of yourself, but hated what she had done to you _more_. She let you blame yourself for so long.

But you would set all of that aside for those you cared about. You would suck it up and force her to come along to protect the Autobots and their alliance with your government. You’d do that for _them_. Not her.

Bethany stared at you, her tears stopping abruptly as her gaze narrowed. For a moment, you thought she saw through you.

“Fine,” She clipped.

You exhaled pure relief.

“I’m trusting you to help me.” Bethany’s tone didn’t sound as grateful as it was calculating. “They have my daughter in a safe place, and she’s with nice people. If the agents think I was kidnapped, they’ll probably still keep her safe and happy.”

“I’ll do whatever I can.” You nodded, agreeing with her rationale. “We’ll figure things out once we’re someplace safe.”

“Can we go now?” Smokescreen grumbled.

Something felt _off_ , but you wouldn’t take up any more time. You nodded at Mirage and he snapped her chains. Bethany squeaked. The mech transformed back down, his doors opening, “Alright, let’s go _quietly_. Okay, little flesh creatures?”

You rounded the fancy blue racecar and claimed the driver’s seat. After settling, you gingerly touched the Autobrand on the steering wheel. A smile came to your lips. Someone sent a rescue team for you. An _organized_ rescue team. Someone remembered you. Someone still cared for you.

Did those Lamborghini twins still care? Were they involved in this? You were eager to find out.

Mirage warned tightly, “No touching.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, while inside the smog:
> 
> Smokescreen is on his knees, trying to grab at the people scurrying around him blindly like newborn turbo-kits.  
> “Ow – that little blaster hurts.”  
> He's trying to be gentle, but fast enough to catch them.  
> “No, no, shh shh, stop screaming.”  
> A human gets into a car and tried to start it. He crunches down on the engine. "Noo, no. Stay."  
> They tried to get out of the car, and he pinches the door shut. “I said *stay*.”  
> Smokescreen cringes as he tossed one *gently* off to the side. "Ooof, better not tell Prime about that..."


End file.
